Cersia

Nana’s tears slid like raindrops down a window pane,

Connecting to the streaking water that pooled 

In the shower basin. Her tears did the same in the ceramic

Sink, and, while she gardened, they soaked the soil

for her orchids. She always came back with a houseplant

From the grocery store. She found that the life dependent on

Her cancer-blotched hands were what made her grow, too.

The frog’s back in her garden soon glistened with her tears, 

And then finally arrived in the Florida air that sticks.

She was once Mayor Pro Tempore, you know. La Palma, 

CA. Dairyland, Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm. She was 

A Democrat. She was Woman of the Year in California.

2001. Now, there’s a shrine dedicated to President Trump

Above their piano. Her son thinks it’s because his father

brainwashed her. Here’s part of a letter she wrote

To Florida Times-Union in 2009: I wish people would 

stop the foolishness of “political correctness” and just

appreciate everyone’s traditions. Just smile and say 

thank you to anyone who wishes you a “happy” day - 

however they express it! Now she thinks Putin has invaded

Maine. Her grandfather was a lighthouse keeper

In Portland. He can't guide her through the fog anymore.

Nana’s son is a general contractor. He said he loves his job

Because he and the homeowners have a vision.

When he materializes the vision from the ground 

He watches their faces. He watches their eyebrow

And smile wrinkles crack from their frowning 

Position and transition into awe. He has made their dream. 

Nana’s daughter is an MD. When the daughter was young 

She had a horse named Cersia. Her and her brother

Would ride Cersia, a beautiful Quarter whose brown

Hair matched the ember-lit mud, and whose muscles

Looked like tectonic plates on a world not tainted.

Back at the stalls, one dull, February morning,

The daughter heard a loud wail travel the woods.

Through the trees in the forest she ran to Cersia– 

Mimicking the horse as she had been running just before. 

When she found her, Cersia was on the ground, trying to rise,

With her left hind-ankle in the wrong direction.

A large mud pit had fallen beneath itself. 

Nana’s daughter vowed to never feel powerless again. 

Nana asked me if I remembered Cersia. 

I am not your son, I wanted to say, but instead 

I said yes. She asked me if I remembered the way 

Cersia would run through the trees with her nose high.  

How she would gallop on the canopy and upwards 

Towards the clouds. Beyond the blue and into the dark 

Where you can see the stars in the reflection of her eyes. 

Beyond the dark into the nothing as well as everything. 

My Nana said, She was trying to reach the end 

Of the fog, my son, and you will not hear her cry.